


Dethspiral

by violeteyes



Category: Metalocalypse, Werewolf: The Apocalypse
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:32:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8867641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violeteyes/pseuds/violeteyes
Summary: When a half-ton killing machine from Hell gets loose in Mordhaus, the world's most popular heavy metal band finds themselves on a collision course with wackiness! And gruesome murders. But mostly wackiness.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gotquiet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotquiet/gifts).



> This is what we call rolling the dice.
> 
> In my previous Yuletide assignments, I got matched on one fandom, idly glanced at the prompts for the fandoms I did not match on (usually with some degree of confusion, having never encountered them before), then wrote a piece in that fandom and called it a day.
> 
> This time, while I matched on the one expected fandom, when I read the non-matches, I actually recognized one. And when I read the two requests as presented, I could only think: _why not do both?_

**MORDHAUS.**

**SECTOR 63-S, SUBSECTION Q, HALL FORTY-SEVEN.**

**WEDNESDAY.**

"Toki," asked a bleary-eyed Nathan Explosion, "why are you dragging us down here and your answer had better involve booze."

Pickles, the drummer, had similar concerns. "This is, like, Saturday morning cartoon o'clock, or like when some normal douchebag leaves for work, what da hell is dat?" He tossed an empty bottle of vodka over his shoulder.

Toki, for his part, was enthusiastic, as he led his bandmates down the sumptuously-carpeted hallway. "Oh, you haves no idea! I have been working on secret projects down here and now its is time to show you! It's'll be fun!" Toki stopped in front of a heavy wooden door with a nameplate reading ROOM 429. The nameplate itself had had a scrap of notebook paper torn out and taped beneath it, with 'Toki's Secret Projekct (no one comes in here)' scrawled across it in blue ballpoint.

"Well, that'sh just DANDY," yelled Murderface at no one in particular. "Toki getsh to do all the side projectsh he wantsh but when I try and talk about Planet Piss, you all act like I'm not even HERE."

Skwisgaar acted like Murderface was, in fact, not even there and noodled a bit on his unplugged Explorer. "Toki, why do you haves the side projects, everyone knows your guitarsplaying is not ask fasts ask mine?"

Toki wasn't going to let any silly sad-faces ruin his day today, and knocked on the door. "Okays, guys! Time to open up the doors and show the really cool secrets!"

There was no reply. The rest of the band stared at Toki. Or, at least, vaguely in the direction of Toki. He tried knocking again, and the door popped open, creaking as it moved an inch or three inwards. Taking this as the appropriate sign to continue, Toki introduced his work:

"Okays! So I figured we needed a cools place to hang out when we wasn't recording, so I hads the Klokateers build us this ping-pong room!"

He pushed the door open wide, revealing a tasteful wood-paneled lounge, with a series of freshly-laid-out tables for table tennis, starched white nets and nice new paddles with the striking surfaces all covered in that spongy rubber that squishes if you pinch it.

Or, at least, that was the plan.

Toki instead opened the door to find a ping-pong themed charnel house. The expected Dethinterns were literally torn limb from limb, and some of the limbs appeared to be partly consumed, as if chewed on by massive beasts. A headless, limbless torso dripped blood from its spot on the wall, impaled on the taxidermied head of an elk. Garlands of intestinal rope draped from one ceiling fan to the next, loose ends flapping slowly as the fans rotated. Instead of ping-pong balls beneath the paddles on each table, the victims' eyeballs had been neatly placed there instead. The expected plastic balls for table tennis had been stuffed into the eye sockets of the corpses. Additional torsos, several belonging to men and several from women, were haphazardly piled on the leather couch in the corner. Arterial spray had been roughly smeared on the wood-paneled walls to leave a message, spelling out the phrase "DETHKLOK WILL DANCE THE BLACK SPIRAL" in the very lifeblood of their workforce.

"Whoa," said Nathan in response, immediately reaching for his tape recorder. "Song title: Ocular Table Tennis. Uh. Ping-Pong Eyeballs. Yeah."

 

\----------------------------------------  
METALOCALYPSE: DETHSPIRAL  
a piece of fanfiction by violeteyes  
\----------------------------------------

 

**MEANWHILE.**

**ELSEWHERE.**

**THE HEADQUARTERS OF THE TRIBUNAL.**

The Senator paced nervously in front of the video monitor, waiting for the meeting to come to order. He could hardly believe what he had to report, but nevertheless...

"Gentlemen," he began, "We have received word that a small passenger jet has crash-landed under its own power about thirty kilometers southwest of Mordhaus. One of our roving surveillance teams encountered it on patrol and investigated."

The General nodded in assent. "Stormblåst unit. Solid men. I assume the report's reliable."

The Senator grimaced slightly and advanced the video monitors to display the wreckage. The overall effect was something like pointing a score of cameras at a flaming meat grinder. Probably the only recognizable thing in the scene was the tail of the plane, marked with the Juular Airlines logo. He continued with his report. "Yeeeeeees, I would assume so. It's difficult to tell, as they indicate the wreck was mostly burnt out. However, apart from the fifteen, possibly sixteen corpses Stormblåst could reliably estimate from parts available, they found only two things of note: first, this large spiral drawn in blood on the outside of the fuselage and the tracks of a large dog or wolf departing the scene through the snow. No further sign of life. No witnesses. Not even any identifiable remains. Just a plane full of people turned into meat."

The Cardinal hissed through his teeth, dismayed at the implications.

The Senator turned to his right. "I've taken the liberty of conferring with my former colleague here from the FBI's Special Affairs Department, the so-called "Project Twilight" that's been handling incidents of this nature for some time now, Dr. Friedrich Wolfgang Von Tannhauser Der Dirkschneider-Toussaint. He's an expert in..." The Senator couldn't help but shake his head, trailing off. "Doctor?"

The Doctor was the sort of man who looked as if he had been born frowning, and could not contort his face into any other shape. He stroked for a moment at his Fu Manchu moustache, muttering his analysis: "Since I received the footage you've just seen, I've had my men at the Bureau combing the passenger manifest, and we've identified this suspect as having boarded this flight, and, unless I miss my guess, forced it down here...by slaughtering everyone else aboard."

The screens clicked over to show the mugshots of a pale, intense-looking man with a prominent widow's peak. He grimaced at the camera, revealing teeth that had appeared to have been filed to unreasonably sharp points. The Doctor continued: "The Rev. Dr. "Baptized-in-Blood" Gleonard Bendix-Petersen, cultist of the Black Spiral Dancers. Butcher. Cannibal. Necrophiliac. Convicted of at least seventeen ritual murders and implicated in dozens more, we've been tracking his movements as best possible for over a decade now. He's given to consuming his victims alive, often while quoting mangled lines of Shakespeare at them, as well as grotesque poetry of his own design."

A brief video clip played, with the man in question setting a large soup pot containing a bound, young curly-haired girl in a blue-and-white gingham dress above a cooking fire in what appeared to be a basement somewhere. He spoke: "I call you to the divine repast, to give your flesh to the beast, to let my hunger be sated...but for a moment! Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, a gallon beef stock, five onions, one fistful leeks, I will most horribly revenge; I eat, and eat..."

The video cut out and the doctor continued. "My suspicion is that Bendix is looking to recruit Dethklok for initiation, or, failing that, to murder them outright."

The Cardinal frowned, pointing with a withered finger. "This heretic priest may undo all of our careful planning."

The General nodded grimly. "I suggest we move at once to contain this threat. The last thing we need is this psychopath getting in there." The enigmatic Mr. Salacia, silent up to this point, interrupted, his voice sepulchral: "No...we will waaaaait. Continue to observe. Also, you have something more to tell us about this man, Doctor." It was not a question. Salacia clearly knew more than was said.

The Doctor nodded. "You may take this analysis as you see fit, but my department's very existence is predicated on protecting mankind from the unexpected, the bizarre. Gleonard Bendix-Petersen is more than just an obscure homicidal cultist. He is, as one might say, _Rougarou."_

The Tribunal looked back at him, uncomprehending. 

_"Rougarou_ is a phonetic derivation from the French _loup garou."_

More silence.

 _"Loup,_ from Latin _lupus_ , meaning wolf. _Garou_ comes from the Frankish _wariwulf_ , which became _waroulf_ then _garoulf_. Therefore, a _rougarou_ is literally a--"

 

**MEANWHILE.**

**MORDHAUS.**

**THE CONFERENCE ROOM.**

"--werewolf. Well, technically, a 'wolfwerewolf,' but we're not here to, uh, judge the French," concluded Dethklok manager Charles Foster Offdensen.

"Where..." repeated Nathan Explosion.

"Whirrwolth?" asked Murderface.

Skwisgaar engaged the new word tentatively. "Vere...?"

Toki took his own crack at it: "Volf?"

Skwisgaar tried again to surmount the first syllable, "Veeeerrrrre..."

"Where..." repeated Nathan Explosion.

Offdensen shrugged. "The prefix were- means 'man', anyway, as in male human, so wolfmanwolf."

Pickles groaned. "Werewolf. It's a frickin' werewolf."

Murderface frowned at Pickles, then tossed an empty bottle over his shoulder. "Yeah, that'sh what I shaid. Whurwolth."

"Where..." repeated Nathan Explosion.

Shaking his head, Offdensen tried to return to the topic at hand. "Right, so, uh, you guys may want to do something--"

Toki expanded on his previous idea. "Varvolfsen?"

Swisgaar tried a different tack. "Varvelf?"

"Where..." repeated Nathan Explosion.

Pickles banged on the table with his fist. "Werewolf. Not hard to say."

"Uh, you may want to do something about the werewolf that's--"

"Wharwilf?

"Varvulfs."

"Where..."

"Werewolf!"

"The werewolf that's eating your employees alive."

"Where..."

"Var..."

"Vashvolv...?"

"Were. Wolf. Basic English, jerkholes."

"Where..."

Offdensen sighed. Clearly, it was another one of those days. "Never mind. You go up to the lounge, I'll deal with this. Like usual."

 

**MEANWHILE.**

**MORDHAUS.**

**SEVERAL FLOORS BELOW.**

Laughter issued from the beast's throat in steely rasps, his wild, staring eyes rolling in their sockets, monstrous jaws scissoring through bone and flesh, soldiers in black hoods flayed to death by the handful with every clawed swipe of the hunter. Gunfire roared, high-caliber rounds sinking like stones in water into the mass of the creature, slowing him not one whit. In leaps and strides, he sailed on the the black wind of death down the red-carpeted corridors.

Standing atop another corpse-to-be on enormous hindpaws, he idly flexed his toes and pushed in the eyeball, the orb popping moments before the skull did the same, crushed by the weight of the gargantuan, hideous man-wolf. His senses rode beyond the edge of his fur, the faceless faces and numbered names of each victim coming to him to luxuriate in as much as he luxuriated in the lashings of blood soaking his frame, true to his Deed Name, he was born anew in violence and gore.

56170, done in with a careless flick of the wrist, his soft neck meats hooting as the jaw and mandible were lifted away, his lungs pumping frantically in the open air.

12623, his head plucked from his shoulders, clawed forefingers plunging through the eye sockets and thumbclaw through the nose, hurled like a bowling ball at 81513, putting him on the ground long enough for the monster to pounce atop him and snack for a moment on his entrails, the security man still screaming and thrashing as the wolf chewed his intestines out and slurped them like noodles, the lupine eyes glowing with rage and bloodlust.

84869, clubbed insensate with her own leg and left to bleed out, the creature howling continued defiance and delight at the ranks of Gears arrayed before him for his entertainment.

9152, his sternum cracked and ripped from his chest, ribs left to dangle uselessly, sweetbreads pulsing gently in the torchlight.

And the black wind moved on.

 

**MEANWILE.**

**MORDHAUS.**

**UPSTAIRS.**

The large flatscreen, somehow still operating after two meathooks had been punched through its upper corners, bathed the lounge in the safe, warm glow of pornography.

The band sat in the hot tub, blissfully ignorant of what was occurring several floors below them. Along with their customary booze of choice, they each had a sandwich. Toppings and dressing idly dripped from each into the water.

Murderface took a large bite of his BLT and sighed. "Sometimes you jusht need to get back to bashicsh. Drinksh. Sandwichesh."

Nathan frowned and chewed thoughtfully on his Reuben. "Murderface, you're generally known for making bad decisions, and I mean _really_ bad decisions to the point where if you held any sort of political office you would probably end civilization as we know it, but this one isn't so bad. Back to basics."

Toki said something, but his mouth was completely gummed up with peanut butter and jelly. "Mmmmnff."

Murderface reiterated his point. "Yep. Back to bashicsh."

Pickles agreed, peppers and onions slowly sliding off his cheesesteak into the tub. "Back...to basics. Yeah, this might be a new beginning for you."

Toki tried saying something else, mouth still full. He pointed at the door. "Mmmnffnnnmmm!"

Skwisgaar snacked delicately on a traditional Swedish räksmörgås shrimp sandwich with his picking hand, his fretting hand still wrapped around the neck of his guitar. "If you continues to makes the goods decisions, maybes I won't have to shows you how to plays bass whens we records?"

Toki thumped his fist on the edge of the hot tub, his mouth still glued tight. "MNFMFFFMMM!"

Murderface tossed the crust of his sandwich over his shoulder and slouched further into the water, ignoring the rhythm guitarist's muffled cries. "Yyyyyep. Today'sh definitely coming up Murderface."

Toki spit the half-chewed wad of sandwich into the hot tub and gasped for air, the rest of the band recoiling in varying degrees of revulsion. He pointed again at the door, now open to reveal the hulking wolfen form of Gleonard Bendix. "WARRWILF!" Toki yelled.

Ten feet high at the shoulder, black and white fur splattered and drenched in blood, the dreadful beast stepped into the room. From predatory jaw to animal tail, the wolf was a form of thick sinew and feral power, snarling and slavering, then tossing back its head to howl to the sky.

Dethklok, collectively, stared at the beast for a moment, stunned. It stared back, basking in the moment before turning the most brutal force on the planet into thralls of his dark master.

It was Pickles who broke the silence. "Yo, guys, dat werewolf has a massive dick."

It totally did.

"Just...floppin' there," the drummer concluded.

"Oh! Thank God someone else noticed that shit because yeah, that's completely screwed up and I didn't want to say anything," Nathan replied.

"Uh-huh. Shince when are you the expertsh on what's a big dick and what's not?" Murderface asked, starting to yell, "when have you ever looked at a penish?!"

The lounge was silent for a moment but for the television behind them, still showing super-mega-ultra HD footage of two porn stars fucking, the cinematography providing a loving close-up of a massive cock sliding home repeatedly.

Skwisgaar glanced at the screen, then back at Murderface.

"Oh, right. Porno," Murderface quietly concluded.

The moment passed, and the beast moved.

"Band meeting!" Toki shouted, leaping from the hot tub, followed quickly by his bandmates, all yelling in mortal terror.

 

**SHORTLY THEREAFTER.**

**A PITCH-BLACK ROOM.**

"Whoa, it's a good thing you found this meeting closet, Toki, we mighta been lunch up there," panted Pickles.

"Feelsh a little...small for a closet," mused Murderface.

"Yeah, is...kindas close," agreed Skwisgaar.

"Sorrys, guys," replied Toki, "I thinks it isn't the closets, I thinks it is vent shafts, like Missions Possibles."

Nathan grunted assent. "That would explain why we're crammed in here so tight."He thought about it for a second. "Little uncomfortable."

 

**MEANWHILE.**

**BACK IN THE LOUNGE.**

Baptized-in-Blood roared in blind, furious rage, realizing he let his pride get the better of him. He let Dethklok escape through the narrow door in the wall, assuming he would tear the portal asunder, then do the same to their minds. Instead, the door had vacuum-sealed behind Murderface, and it seemed impervious to his continued assault.

From behind him, startling him out of his reverie, a voice: "Those silver-titanium alloy fixtures cost us, uh, approximately thirty-eight-point-seven-seven million dollars." The unimposing figure of Offdensen walked through the door, carrying a vastly more imposing high-caliber revolver. "Nice to see I've got a solid ROI there." He adjusted his ear protectors and levelled the gun.

The wolf whirled around, about to add another corpse to his collection on the day when pain exploded in his shoulder. Offdensen kept the weapon levelled, lining up his second shot. "Unfortunately for our security staff, we only had a limited supply of silver bullets available. Mostly for insurance purposes. But probably enough for you."

 

**MEANWHILE.**

**IN A 38.77 MILLION DOLLAR TITANIUM-SILVER ALLOY DUMBWAITER SYSTEM.**

"Uh, what just poked my butt?" asked Nathan.

"I dunno," replied Skwisgaar, "but somethings is am pokings my own butts."

Toki replied "It's not me, but mys butt is definitelys pokes, yes."

Murderface was immediately on the offensive. "Well, whoever'sh poking my butt had better knock it off, or I will literally kill them. I've been training in kung do. It'sh like kung fu and tae kwan do...but deadlier."

Pickles spoke up as well. "Yeah, I wasn't gonna say nothin', but, uhhhh, there's definitely something on my butt. Pokin'."

He paused for a second.

"Pokin' my butt," he repeated.

 

**MEANWHILE.**

**LOUNGE.**

It wasn't often that the Black Spiral Dancer known as Baptized-in-Blood encountered any sort of combatant his teeth and claws couldn't immediately scatter into bloody shreds like tissue paper on the wind, but this took the fuckin' cake as far as he was concerned. He could feel the silver bullets burning inside him, points of fire rattling around his ribcage with every breath he sucked in and with every blow struck by this guy who dressed like Gordon Gekko but moved like Bruce Lee. He howled again, catching the suit with a backhand of one taloned paw. The suit hit the wall, but was immediately up and running again. "Why won't you just die?!" the wolf raged.

Offdensen spat a gobbet of blood and reached into his jacket, drawing a long knife. Murderface's Civil War-era catling blade. A surgeon's amputation tool. Silver, to prevent infection.

Technically, one of like fifty Civil War-era catling knives owned by the bassist.

"I've got more important things to do, wyrmspawn."

 

**MEANWHILE.**

**BACK INSIDE THE HOT...DARK...CLOSED-OFF...DUMBWAITER SYSTEM.**

"Okay, since we clearly can't agree on admitting what's going on right now, whoever's in here that doesn't have a hard-on, speak now."

Silence.

"God fucking damn it."

 

**MEANWHILE.**

"I live a bizarre life," Charles Foster Offdensen mused to himself as he set about the grim task of dismembering the lycanthropic corpse, to prevent it from regenerating its wounds and continuing its red work. He hacked at the beast's neck with the surgical knife he borrowed from Murderface's room, muttering, "Might as well be using an olive fork."

One of the surviving Klokateers wandered up behind him as he continued. "Perfect timing. What's the status on the boys?"

The Klokateer began his status report: "Master, the band is safe, but Mordhaus is still on automatic security auto-lockdown. We won't be able to open the dumbwaiters for another half-hour."

Offdensen frowned, wiping some grue from his hands with his pocket square. "Are they safe in there?"

"Yes, Master."

"Well, a half-hour won't kill them. See what you can do in the meantime."

 

**MEANWHILE.**

"We musts nevers speaks of this agains."

**Author's Note:**

> Well! That was certainly fun. Certainly the first time I haven't been tinkering with one thing or another running up to the deadline. It may be unorthodox to combine prompts like this, and if you're very much the sort who doesn't want their peas touching their potatoes, I do apologize, but nevertheless, I wish you and yours the best of the season.
> 
> Albums used for proper ambiance while working:  
> Darkthrone, _The Underground Resistance_ (2013)  
>  Death, _Individual Thought Patterns_ (1993) and _Symbolic_ (1995)  
>  Dimmu Borgir, _Puritanical Euphoric Misanthropia_ (2001)  
>  Origin, _Origin_ (2000)  
>  Sepultura, _Chaos A.D._ (1993)  
>  Strapping Young Lad, _City_ (1998)
> 
> And probably at least several others - I write exceedingly slowly.


End file.
